


the pretty place, where once we used to run all day

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - School, Bullying (mentioned), Childhood Memories, Crushes, Cute, Fluff, Innocence, M/M, Not Beta Read, it's too cute help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: AU- Marty and Rust met in school.(written in one sitting because this AU was too darn cute to resist)





	

The boy sat on yellowed, sun-toughened grass, white flowers wilting behind him in the small garden that was more overtaken by weeds than it was by plants that the school had planted there intentionally. He held a book close to his reedy chest, like he wanted to hide in it. He had bird’s bones, thin arms, bony fingers that spread over pages with the reverence of a boy who did not enjoy sports or conversation. The teachers had tried to talk to him, tried to arrange conferences with his father, but no one could quite reach Rustin Cohle. Even at the age of fourteen his eyes were hooded and secretive, and his wavy hair fell down over his face, allowing him to hide. His skin was too pallid to be healthy, and his clothes were too large. Old shirts with battered seams, tucked into the waistband of his thrift store jeans, held onto his waist only by a length of leather that was tied off, fashioned into a belt.

He’d come to school with a textbook stained by whiskey, one morning, to the horror and exasperation of his teachers.

On this dry, arid day he sat with his legs crossed, sleeves rolled up, head bowed over his book. He chewed on his lip as he read, tonguing an old bruise in the corner of his mouth that had started to fade. The other boys didn’t like him very much, which was why he was out here. No one else wanted to be outside in this heat. The soccer ball, usually kicked around enthusiastically by the other boys, sat deflated and abandoned a few feet from him. The simmering heat seemed to be draining the life from it.

Rustin heard the crunch of approaching footsteps on the grass, and didn’t look up. He fixed his eyes on the words in his book, tried to will away reality.

The footsteps continued to approach, until a shined leather shoe kicked aimlessly at the soccer ball, prodding it away. Rustin looked up. The boy approaching him was blond, with bright blue eyes. His cheeks were round and freckled, and he had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ironed shorts. The other boys always teased him for his clothes, for being too neat, but Martin Hart wasn’t like Rustin. He wasn’t afraid of anyone.

Martin walked up to Rustin, stopped in front of him. Rustin squinted up at him. The sun framed Martin’s head, made his blond hair shine when a gust of hot wind ruffled through it. Rustin was scared, afraid that Martin would hit him– he’d seen Martin hit other boys before, though Rustin had always been sure they deserved it. He was sure he’d done nothing to provoke the older boy, but that was hardly a reassurance. He’d never done anything to provoke anyone. Not his father, not the boys at school. He felt so small, all the time, and he didn’t know why. He wondered whether everyone felt this small. This frightened.

All he wanted to do was read his books.

“Y’shouldn’t be out here. It’s too hot.” Martin said flatly, voice pitched high with youthfulness. “You’ll get sick or somethin’.”

Rustin swallowed, his throat dry. He held his book against his chest, hunched against it as he looked up at Martin. “I’m fine.”

Martin continued to stare at him. He was wearing cornflower blue, today, a handkerchief tucked into the pocket of his shirt. Rustin wondered what it would be like to carry a handkerchief. Martin’s clothes were always so clean, and he smelled like lavender. Rustin liked that about him.

Martin sighed, a huff of annoyance. He sank down, and Rustin flinched, thinking that Martin was about to hit him. But Martin fell down beside him, crossing his legs too. Their knees touched, and Rustin held his book tighter against his chest.

“My nickname’s Marty,” Martin muttered, grabbing the soccer ball and throwing it around in his lap. “You can call me that, if you want.”

Rustin didn’t know quite why Martin was telling him that, or even why Martin was speaking to him at all; they’d never talked before. Rustin had seen him in class, seen the way he frowned down at his work, frustrated, and the way he’d pick fights because he was upset about classwork being hard for him. Rustin had always wanted to offer help, but he’d known that Martin would be angry. Rustin could understand that. Everyone got upset when they couldn’t get something right.

Martin looked at him, tapped his hand against the soccer ball. Dust puffed out, dirtied his ironed shirt. He didn’t seem to mind.

“D’you have a nickname?”

Rustin shook his head. Martin seemed shocked.

“What the hell. I’m gonna call you Rust, then. Okay?”

Rustin nodded. He'd never had a nickname before.

“We should go get some soda. School’s boring, and the teachers ain’t any fun. You want some soda, Rust?”

Rustin’s eyes widened, and he shook his head again, faster now. The act of refusing Martin’s offer made him quake with fear, so he opened his mouth, stuttering, trying desperately to explain himself;

“No, I- I don’t think so. Thank you.”

Martin pursed his lips. “Why?”

“We have to- It’s bad to skip school. My dad’ll be angry.”

Martin laughed. “Ain’t dads always angry?”

Rustin blinked. He’d spent a lot of time imagining Martin’s parents, imagining a house filled with ironed clothes and yummy food, where Martin would come home and be greeted with hugs and kisses. He’d dreamed of it, and imagined going to a sleepover at Martin’s house. He wanted that so much. He couldn’t imagine that Martin had a mean dad.

“C’mon,” Martin seized Rustin’s hand, hauled him upwards off the ground. Rustin shied away from him, hunching away as he stumbled to his feet. He pulled uncomfortably at his clothes, tugging his shirt down. Martin was already walking away, waving for Rustin to follow. He was heading for the rusted, sun-bleached chain fence that surrounded the school.

“Let’s go, slowpoke!”

“We shouldn’t,” Rustin protested, heart hammering against his ribs, “Marty-”

“Come on!” Martin turned around, grinning, hands in his pockets. He looked so happy, so excited, that Rustin’s heart beat even harder, and there was a smile on his face before he could help it. His chest got warm, in a way that was different from the heat of the sun, and he started to run towards Martin. Martin laughed, and started running too.

“Race you!”

 

***

 

Martin took him to a corner store, where he bought two sodas in glass bottles. They were both gasping for air, sweat pouring down their small faces, and they drank their sodas hungrily as the store owner watched with undisguised amusement from behind the counter. Condensation dripped down their glasses, dampening their palms, sugar dancing on their tongues. Martin tugged on Rustin’s sleeve, led him out of the store and out into the street.

“Where are we going?” Rustin asked, elated by the adventure, looking around guiltily, as if someone was about to appear and tell them to go back to school. “Marty?”

“C’mon,” Martin laughed in reply, “over here.”

They went to a garden, where there were sprinklers and lush, bright flowers. Martin sat on the damp grass, lay on his back as the spray cooled him. Water beaded on his wheat-coloured eyelashes, sat against his lips and dotted his cheeks, and Rustin wondered why he was suddenly thinking that Martin was beautiful. He’d never thought that about anyone before.

“Sit down, Rust,” Martin insisted, grinning, “are you afraid of water, huh?”

Rustin smiled, sat down beside him. He let his leg brush against Martin’s waist, and he loved that small point of contact, loved the way that Martin didn’t mind being touched. Rustin’s dad didn’t like hugs, or even handshakes. He was afraid of touch. Rustin had never understood why.

“We should be friends.” Martin declared. “Are we friends, Rust?”

Rustin blushed. He wasn’t sure why, but he looked down into his soda, tucked a wave of brown hair behind his ear. “Yeah.”

Martin beamed, his blue eyes bright. “We should stay here all the time. Just drinkin’ soda, like this. I have two bikes, you could ride one. We could run away together. We could be anythin’. What would you like to be, when you grow up?”

Rustin didn’t know. He told Martin as much, and then Martin replied that he was going to be a detective, just like his dad. He was gonna be strong, and big, and tough. He was gonna be a hero. They told stories and drank soda, wasting away the day in the warm slumber of childhood, surrounded by flowers and an innocent world.

 

 


End file.
